So this is the set up. My computer sits on a desk facing the wall and behind me and slightly to my right, is the television. This has also been my working from home station since March, 2020. There’s nothing like having no morning or evening commute to make the passage of time a stark reminder that the days fly by unremorsefully regardless of our present activity.
A sofa sits to my right; this is where my wife sits when she watches her chick crack on Netflix (from which there is a profuse stream). Yesterday afternoon I was on the computer while she watched something that lingered vaguely in my environmental awareness. From what I could be bothered to surmise, she was watching one of those bothersome “woe-man is me” documentaries where women nag endlessly about the evils of our American patriarchy (the same one that has given them such a lavish existence of comforts and abilities to commandeer common discourse). Yeah, bad men everywhere, and now we can make ridiculous movies about how bad things were because of man, of men, and how bad they still are because we have nothing else to do besides wallow in debilitating hopelessness.
So I listened, wavering between bothered and don’t-give-a-shit, without enough investment to voice anything. It isn’t that I disagreed with many of the sentiments expressed, but the self-aggrandizing victimization that so many people indulge in wears thin on me. I have no desire to listen to self-pity streams all day long. Life is tough, tougher on some of us, yes. Quit whining; work to remedy the problem (and many do) and shut up. The femi-spiels droned on and I remained silent, but then…
The subject was Stephen King. Or more specifically, a film adaptation of his novel, “Carrie.” They spoke about the filming of the memorable scene in which Carrie, a pathologically sheltered teenaged girl whose fanatically religious mother never taught her about her impending menstrual cycle, is pelted by tampons in the gym locker room after her first period begins at a most inopportune time after PE class. When the scene was transplanted to film, some of the women in the documentary, entitled “That Changes Everything,” were of the opinion women were not given enough input into the scene’s staging.
All because woman hate, I’m sure.
“Why didn’t they talk to Stephen King,” I murmured snidely.
The movie laments women’s lack of representation and presence in Hollywood’s behind the scenes coterie of directors, studio executives and production crews. There is no denying this, of course. It is a man’s world in the executive boardrooms and the upper echelons of management, and there is an old-boy network that predominates in the production realm.
But just as women defer to the classic narrative about rape being about power, not sex, their narrative about underrepresentation in male-dominated industries is about power, not gender.
Male-dominated spheres are fueled by power and elitism, not by misogyny, per se. Women are powerless traditionally, by definition and biological evolution so they are treated as a subspecies in the masculine world. This is obvious. But it’s not about gender, it’s about power. You know who has it worse than women? Low status nerdy males, or “incels,” to sanctimonious liberals who would like to pin all violence and misogyny on these men who, ultimately, experience the same persecution that women do from the same male power-brokers that they condemn.
Nerdy males have no status, no power, and rank lower than women, who at least offer high status males the sensory pleasure of femininity and ego massaging. Low status males offer nothing to anybody and retreat into obscurity, easily cast to the neglected heap of forgotten sub-humanity. They are so low ranking that even feminists abuse and mock them.
When will Netflix make an empathetic documentary about powerless males?